


That Kind of Rhythm To It

by hitlikehammers



Series: The World We Forge Unending [1]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (This is Literally A Story About Beard Burn Okay? That's Mostly It. Beard Burn Being Hot.), Anal Fingering, As In: Gratuitous Self-Indulgent Beard Burn, Avengers: Infinity War (Movie) Trailer Spoilers, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Trailer, Beard Burn, Bearded Bucky Barnes, Bearded Steve Rogers, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Post-Credits Scene, During Various Sexual Activities, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Minor Body Worship, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War, Rimming, Schmoop, So Much Undying Love It's Almost Obscene, Supersoldiers in Love, T'Challa is Better Than You
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 04:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12999639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: The loose curve of those full lips isn’t new. Neither is the peek of teeth behind the smile that just teases on every exhale, like a secret as their breaths slow and their skin dries and the world starts to pull back into focus. But the flutter beneath Steve’s chin where it rests against Bucky’s chest is odd, somehow—not novel, exactly, in itself, but the breath and the beat are off, are shivery, are—He lifts his head, eyes narrowed just a bit in the dim.“What?”Because it’s soft, and it’s faint, and it’s half of anything full in it, but that thing? That thing that’s odd?It’s fuckinglaughter.-Sequel to theNo End To This Thingseries, where Steve and Bucky get the healing they deserve, post-Civil War.





	That Kind of Rhythm To It

**Author's Note:**

> The [Avengers: Infinity War](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ZfuNTqbHE8) trailer maybe implied a between-movies scenario of Steve-in-Wakanda, and _definitely_ implied a between-movies scenario of Bucky-in-Wakanda, and seeing as I wrote [that whole series of post-CW stories dealing with precisely that](http://archiveofourown.org/series/455365), I popped out some ficlets after the trailer in response that happened to take place in that series-verse, and then discarded them.
> 
> I then spent a week with my darling [weepingnaiad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad), and accidentally told her about said discarded fics. Needless to say, I was reminded why I should not do that, lest said fics be removed from the GDocs bin and finished for posting.
> 
> So here's that. Or else: one of those. There were a few. There may be more. If you'd like to follow Steve and Bucky post-[No End To This Thing](http://archiveofourown.org/series/455365), here's the series to follow: **[The World We Forge Unending](http://archiveofourown.org/series/892896)** —there's at LEAST one more story. Which, if you know me, means there are an indefinite amount of stories :\

The loose curve of those full lips isn’t new. Neither is the peek of teeth behind the smile that just teases on every exhale, like a secret as their breaths slow and their skin dries and the world starts to pull back into focus. 

But the flutter beneath Steve’s chin where it rests against Bucky’s chest is odd, somehow—not novel, exactly, in itself, but the breath and the beat are off, are shivery, are—

He lifts his head, eyes narrowed just a bit in the dim.

“What?”

Because it’s soft, and it’s faint, and it’s half of anything full in it, but that thing, that’s odd? 

It’s fucking _laughter_.

And Steve’s honestly just trying to figure out what’s caused it, what’s brought it on, because it’s not like they don’t laugh in bed: for humor, for joy, for the sheer absurdity of nothing and everything and the fact that they’re _here_ , but Steve can’t trace where this is coming from, and usually if Bucky’s marveling at the fact that they’re alive and kicking and fucking and in-fucking- _love_ in a paradisiacal technological mecca, in the 21st goddamn _century_ , well, when Bucky’s laughing with wonder at that? It’s breathy, and it’s awestruck, and his pulse kinda dances with it under Steve’s ear and there’s kissing, there’s always kissing that starts at the crown of Steve’s head and then pulls him up, up, up until they’re ready to start again, and celebrate the impossible one more time of a thousand times to come.

This, though, is not breathy. This is low and primal and far too amused.

 _Far_ too amused.

“No, seriously.” Steve shifts upward and props himself up over Bucky’s torso. “What?”

Bucky shakes his head, that mouth curling at the corners as his eyes drift closed for a long second, that sated, tender gaze rolling over Steve slowly when he blinks back, and Steve lets himself have an equally-long second to revel in it, to let it tremble through his limbs and sing through his veins before he reaches up and pinches Bucky’s biceps—because they can live a hundred fucking years but Bucky’s still kind of a child when it comes to making him break and answer a goddamn question.

And Steve’s vindicated when, after a yelp and an exaggerated massaging of his arm, Bucky props himself on his elbows against the bed and smirks:

“Beard burn.”

Steve takes a second to let the words sink in, then rakes his gaze over Bucky’s splayed skin, shadows obscuring the places where Steve would have dragged a cheek too close but Steve knows Bucky’s body better than he knows most things in the world, and he can tell where it’s red, where it’s chafed, where it stings in the way that Steve thinks is fucking transcendent when Bucky leaves him with it, but, well. That’s _Steve_. 

“Oh,” Steve frowns a little before he flicks his eyes up to meet Bucky’s. 

“Fuck, sorry,” Steve says: automatic, on instinct, and it’s odd, because those eyes are dancing a lot like Bucky’s pulse does when he’s marvelling for the fact of _them_ and _here_ , and it doesn’t match the words from Steve’s mouth, exactly, but the fact remains: 

“I didn’t, I mean—”

Bucky’s mouth is swallowing whatever words there were that intended to follow, but honestly? By the time Bucky nips his lower lip and goes to pull back, all Steve remembers clearly is how much he wants to _not_ lose Bucky’s mouth on his, so he reaches out and cups the back of Bucky’s head and makes damn sure that he doesn’t.

And he’s half-hard, again, by the time they do part, breathless.

And Bucky’s laughing again, though there’s nothing gentle or subtle about it now.

“Shut it, moron,” Bucky flicks Steve’s ear playfully. “I _like_ it.”

Steve won’t admit it takes a second to orient to the topic of the conversation, but it’s a thing, and Bucky likes it, and so Steve’s effort is immediately fixed on identifying the thing and making sure it happens forever and for always.

Which—

Bucky’s palm cups Steve’s jaw, stokes with the pad of his thumb and oh. Yes. That.

“Oh,” Steve fumbles, because Steve really likes how it feels when Bucky touches him like that, soft-stroke back and forth like the world turning or the universe stretching out wide. 

“Oh, you,” Steve meets Bucky’s eyes. “Yeah?”

And in the dark those eyes are how Steve figures stardust probably looks; dark and deep and rare and impossible, a gift from the goddamn heavens above. 

And that gift goddamn snorts at him, and Steve’s so in love it could bleed him dry.  
“How are you surprised?” Bucky asks him, incredulous. “ _You_ fuckin’ love it.”

“Well,” Steve bites his lip for habit, but does it again, and licks at the worried skin slow when he watches those stardust specks follow the motion with interest, heating every second. “That’s ‘cause it’s _you_.”

Bucky shakes his head but the smile that comes with is worth the world, and so is the way he very deliberately runs his heavy stubble over Steve’s bare shoulder, close up to his ear where he whispers, nipping at the lobe: 

“Goddamn sap.”

And Steve’s never denied that. Because he may be foolish, and stubborn, but some things? Some things don’t even have a foothold for a fight.

“I mean,” Steve shrugs, but it’s more of an excuse to press into Bucky’s skin, nuzzle against the strands of hair, silky here and prickly there along his cheek and feel the blood rise to the surface of his skin with the stimulation, the attention, the worrying back and forth of texture on flesh and Steve closes his eyes and swallows a moan because his blood starts to pound for it, the strange and inarticulable intimacy of it, the new feeling of give and take in the scrape back-and-forth, the same kind of pleasure in the burn as it ever was with Bucky’s touch upon him, inside him, against him, around him and to know it’s wanted, returned, desired in kind, it’s beautiful all over again, so much bigger and better and brighter, and maybe that’s what lets Steve say it, unfettered, thinking only of the blush of color that’ll be there still in the morning, only just visible for something, _something_ — 

“I like how it stays.”

Because it does. Gorgeously; perfectly—somehow, the burn mark stays and reminds Steve past these moments in the dark of a thing he could never _need_ a reminder of, but relishes the token, the tangible knowledge under his hands, in his very cells to be seen: a badge earned, a blessing given, the way his heart looks when it’s painted in his skin.

“Why d’ya think it doesn’t fade as quick?” Bucky muses, having shifted so that he’s pressed against Steve’s body, turned on his side and trailing a hand over his own chest, the irritation from Steve’s beard from their last round still evident under his fingertips as he drags them across, apparently-idle-but-anything-but. “On either of us?”

Steve’s mouth’s dry with the dance of those hands across the marks he left, so it takes a second swallow before he ventures an answer. 

“Not a mortal wound?”

“Neither’s a broken bone, but those set fast.”

Steve bites his bottom lip in thought. 

“Doesn’t impede battle, y’know, readiness?”

Steve nearly bites _through_ his bottom lip when Bucky’s lips attach themselves to the underside of his jaw.

“Neither do the hickies I leave here,” Bucky mouths into the skin; “and here,” and Steve’s exhale shudders when Bucky goes lower on his neck, to the pulse point he teases ever closer to the surface as Steve’s blood races harder, headier, needier with every lave; “and here,” and fuck, but Bucky knows him, Bucky knows him too well and Steve gasps back a moan that the whole fucking palace would hear otherwise when Bucky starts to suck on the thin flesh just behind Steve’s ear, so fucking sensitive Steve feels his cock twitch swift for the touch of tongue: “and—”

“Maybe because that’s a sensitive place,” Steve breathes out with a rush, and thinks the words probably bleed together enough to be incomprehensible in reality, because the tightness is his groin is absurd for a mouth near his _neck_ to draw up, but it is, it does, it’s, it’s—

“‘Cause it’s like,” Steve sucks in air between clenched teeth, harnessing what little threads of composure remain; “critical functions, arteries, whatnot?”

Steve should know what’s coming when the lips on his skin curve, and he can feel it. Probably, somewhere, he does know.

But the lightning fast way that Bucky swoops down and presses lips against the pounding beat at the vee of Steve’s hips is incredible, improbable, and it catches inside Steve’s chest like a fist, and Steve nearly comes undone when his dick brushes against the rough of Bucky’s cheek and oh hell, oh _hell_ —

“And _here_ —”

Steve moans, and that’s when Bucky sees fit to pull away entirely, the glint in his eyes when Steve’s vision finally focuses and his heart eases away from pounding out of his chest so he can see and know and exist outside of just the feel of Bucky’s touch: the glint is predatory, satisfied, and if Bucky thought it was just torture, blissful torture to leave Steve wanting for the physical contact, to watch him writhe, then the promise of that expression and the drag of Bucky’s beard against Steve’s length, however, soft and swift, proves Bucky sorely wrong.

“De—” Steve can barely breathe, though, let alone speak when Bucky crawls on top of him and hovers chest to chest, but pressed flush everywhere below, and Steve sucks oxygen as if it matters, as if it’ll steady him when his world is made of need and the body above him, the heart above his heart which hangs suspended just there, too far, so close. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve gasps, and arches into Bucky’s body as best he can when Bucky’s mouth covers his left nipple; “depth of,” Steve tries to swallow and can’t, too dry, too thin, too _much_ : 

“Of the,” Steve jolts, when Bucky swirls his tongue around the bud between each careful, precise, fucking _maddening_ draw of those perfect fucking _lips_. 

“Of the what, babydoll?” Bucky says it, breathes it sweet against the wet on Steve's chest to draw a shiver; too sweet, the fucker, and Steve can hear the taunt in that tone, god _damnit_. 

“ _Fuck_ you,” Steve hisses, because _Jesus_. 

“I’m hopin’, yeah,” Bucky hums, playing the pebbled skin around Steve’s nipple just barely against the blunts of his teeth. “But later.”

And Steve goddamn wants that mouth full on his nipple again, wants that mouth _everywhere_ , wants the lilt of hair scraping from the tip of Bucky’s chin against the tingling skin teased to needing, _so much needing_ , and he knows he won’t get a damn thing if he doesn’t give Bucky what he wants so he musters his resolve and tries to string letters into words. 

“Size of, of,” he stammers, because Bucky’s breathing heavy just above his chest, the heat a horrible, hateful, heavenly thing, good _god_ : “injury?”

In trying to string letters into words, ‘try’ was the operative term. 

“Hmm,” Bucky considers; Steve, on the other hand, is caught up in the way the sound rumbles, vibrates straight through to Steve’s middle where Bucky’s skin still touches full on, and it’s too close to where Steve needs, high and low, and fucking _everywhere_ —

“Maybe,” Bucky finally declares, face drawn serious but those eyes, those eyes are still full of dangerous, delicious light when he asks, so fucking innocent it could never, _never_ be true: “Should I suck lighter, like an experiment?”

Steve’s heart gives a heavy, shaking thump and he surges up, strung too fucking tight not to snap as he grabs for Bucky’s neck and draws him in, desperate and needy and full up with fucking greed for it, for him that it doesn’t matter, even as it’s the only thing that matters, the only thing at _all_ :

“Don’t you _dare_.”

And Bucky’s grin is wicked, is incandescent as he slides just a little lower, reaches around to trace the cleft of Steve’s ass and Steve arches, losing what little control he had, arching up into Bucky with a rabid, unreined need to grind against him with mindless dedication to that singular task, that singular goal of friction, and feeling, and the flutter of Bucky’s lashes even as his fingertips circle the still-loose ring of muscle and they both shudder, moan and ache for different iterations of the self-same, overwhelming, heart-stopping desire; for the way they move like they were stitched together years ago and for all that the threads were pulled and frayed they hardened somehow, made molten and set to steel and they move in tandem because they’re a single self, a single soul and they know.

They _know_.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Bucky hisses through clenched teeth, throat working around breath, struggling around every swallow and the racing pulse that Steve watches with fascination as it undulates along muscle and skin and Steve wants it, Steve _wants it_.

“Fuck, you’re,” Bucky gasps, one finger slipping into Steve just as Steve latches his mouth to Bucky’s neck and kisses, suckles, bruises with abandon; arches up, presses his hips into Bucky’s and pretends to sway but really merely shakes, just as frantic. 

“You’re unbelievable, you’re fucking perfect, Jesus,” Bucky ends on a moan, a prayer, and he bows his head as soon as Steve lets go of him as if he doesn’t have the strength, the possession of his own self to keep it up, and the drag of stubble down Steve’s sternum is immaculate in the process; the way his forehead settles against Steve’s pounding heart is unspeakable and so much more like salvation than Steve ever thought he’d know.

“You’re more than,” Steve pants, and relishes a little too much the way that the motion, the breaths lift his chest into Bucky’s lips, into the prickly slide of Bucky’s chin and cheeks and jaw at every angle, into Bucky’s body so the beating presses up like it could leap inside and live forever. 

“More’n I could have imagined, more’n I ever tried to, ever dared to be so, so, selfish to, to, I,” and Steve’s breath catches, hitches, snags when Bucky’s fingers twist just so inside him, stretching Steve leisurely, with no need or agenda, on the still-lingering slick of Bucky’s own fucking come. 

“When you’re small, y’know, when, ah—” Steve cries out just a little, and Bucky’s teeth drag against Steve’s side before they nip a bit between the ribs.

“Shh, Stevie,” Bucky chides, but there’s no force behind it, no truth: “the neighbors’ll hear.”

Which they absolutely fucking _won’t_ , because they don’t _have_ neighbors anymore. In that the inevitable vacating of their palace suite had been expedited—with an open invitation to dinners, of course—as a result of the neighbors _hearing_. By which: T’Challa had told Bucky he was very happy that their love life had rekindled so profoundly, and the privacy to maintain that passion would undoubtedly benefit both the couple and the palace attendants who had grown uncertain as to how to go about changing linens when their esteemed guests never seemed to be _un_ occupied, and he’d told Bucky _alone_ because he had some sense of sympathy for the fact that Steve would have turned red from ears to feet if he’d known.

And so _of course_ , Bucky’d told him immediately, because he _loves seeing you blush, Stevie, you beautiful fuckin’ prude_.

So, yeah. Steve will damn well be as loud as he fucking wants, whenever he fucking wants, and maybe he’ll still blush and Bucky’ll mouth at his skin like he can taste the life in it, and Steve will melt into it because he can _feel_ the life in it, life and the world entire. 

But what he has to say when Bucky’s touch strokes, stokes improbable fire, impossible bliss: what he has to say here and now with the heavy-heady stretch of his heart on each beat and the fullness, so fucking _full_ everywhere with everything, with all of this, of _them_ —

What he has to say now doesn’t need to be loud. The push of his blood, the gasp of his lungs are both deafening in comparison, but that’s all they are, all they have.

The words that come are stronger than anything else.

“When you’re small ‘n you think,” Steve gasps, breathless; “think of bein’ grown up and lovin’ and I,” and he trembles, trembles and arches and feels Bucky cock twitch at the contact and Steve’s thighs ache, and the artless roll of hips, of his length against Bucky’s as the pads of Bucky’s fingers pull out and circle wet around Steve’s hole and they’re both shaking, Bucky’s hands are shaking and gripping him tighter and Steve knows those bruises will fade almost instantly but in the tight pull inside his chest it’ll stay; they will stay. 

“I had a lot of time to think, and dream of impossible things,” Steve says without air, with just the shapes his lips make for shaking, for feeling it all start to build to breaking full; “but you.”

And Steve blinks, and tries to clear the fever-haze from his vision every time his pulse splays it wide and thick and heavy over his eyes so he can look at Bucky, so he can reach and tilt Bucky’s chin and meet Bucky’s eyes and read the teetering, the promised dissolution of all sense and control, but beyond that, among that, within that—every single vision of what could be held tight to the heart like a scar or a flame or the only thing keeping the blood spilling forth from it with every beat: precious. Necessary. 

The only way to breathe.

“But Buck,” Steve tries to pull in air but it’s futile, a long-lost cause, and he’s so close, he’s so _close_ : “Fuck, Bucky, but _you_ —”

And Bucky’s fingers, Bucky’s mouth, Bucky’s body: it all sends Steve over the edge and he spills hard, feels Bucky come the same, slick on the underside of Steve’s pulsing cock and Steve’s heart’s a mallet, Steve’s lungs burn bright and he clings to Bucky’s biceps like the end of the world and the beginning of everything better and he can barely see for the brightness and the dark in tandem, in turn for the assault to his senses as he peaks and tumbles down—the overwhelming strength of it never once wavering, never losing the capacity to redefine what Steve is and how his world moves.

There’s bliss in his bones and air reemerges and the blur at the corners of his eyes start to clear, and he breathes, he breathes, and Bucky’s faces is buried in his chest, is propped against the bump of his heart against the ribs, settling—settling but so eager, so earnest and it’s still deep, still full enough that it moves the skin, scrapes greedy against the prickly skin of Bucky’s chin and oh, oh—

 _Oh_.

Whatever bliss lived in Steve’s bones, it spreads, it splays, it settles in every crevice of his being and it’s incredible. Every time like the first time, it’s goddamn sublime.

“That.”

Steve didn’t realize his eyes had slipped closed until he has to open them, fluttery and still part-dazed, to finds Bucky’s eyes on him, gazing up at him with so much naked affection it swells in Steve’s chest and nearly hurts, save that it feels so fucking good.

“That right there.”

Steve blinks. “Hmm?”

Bucky’s fingertips reach, touch gently at the quirked-up corners of Steve’s lips, ghosting at the beard there and tempting shivers down Steve’s spine. 

“Never gonna get over how that smile looks on you,” Bucky breathes; “all wide open, all heart and soul and just,” he leans, and this time his kiss hits just at Steve’s chest, soft and full and honest when he speaks to the life that hums beneath the skin: 

“Just _you_.”

And Steve’s suffused with heat, and the thrill of _real, it’s real, we’re real, and here, and he’s next to me and miracles exist, they exist and they’re given and this is a truth I won’t ever live to lose_—Steve’s overtaken by the feeling, a constant companion in his blood that softens his heart and hardens his resolve in every moment; drives his will and tightens his grasp on Bucky’s arms even as he smirks a little, even as every paradox smoothes around them, impossible as they’ve ever been and ever will be:

“Never gonna get over how sentimental you are after you come.”

Bucky pinches just below Steve’s elbow. “Shut it, punk.”

Steve tugs at Bucky’s hair, and relishes the feeling of Bucky’s chin dragging against Steve’s chest as he laughs. “Make me, jerk.”

Bucky lifts his head and raises a brow. “I can do that.”

And Bucky’s moving slow, slow down the length of Steve’s torso, delicious burn that’ll stay, that’ll stay, and he’s tickling the crease of Steve’s thighs, he’s scraping the hardening curve of Steve’s prick, and he’s on his way around and behind, below, dragging his way across the sensitive stretch of skin below Steve’s balls and back, back to plant lips first between the cleft of Steve’s ass and Steve’s damn fucking _vibrating_ with the promise and the want and the burn of the beard and the need like twin gifts from the universe entwined, but he grabs for Bucky’s hand and waits for him to stop before Steve gasps:

“ _Not_ lighter.”

He wants to feel it. He wants to feel it tomorrow, and as long as he can.

“You’re a pushy sonuvabitch,” Bucky mouths against the globe of Steve’s ass, sucks there for a second and that won’t stay, but that’s okay.

“You like when I’m pushy,” Steve rolls his eyes, and lives up to the accusation, proves his point when he does indeed push into Bucky’s mouth, desperate.

“What can I say,” Bucky murmurs, licking the line of Steve’s cheeks and letting his stubble scratch up, down, up, down, and Steve can imagine when the pink brightens up to red, the heat betraying the depth, the harsh, the perfection of it as Bucky murmurs into searing flesh: “It’s kinda hot.”

And Steve trembles as Bucky’s breath hitches on the wet trail from his mouth, from his tongue as he stutters: “Don’t I know it.”

And Bucky’s about to dive in, to lick deeper and press fuller into the space he’s already stretched wide for the taking but Steve tenses, all the fire in him coalescing as he settles in a singular flame and gasps it before he can douse it, as if he’d ever want to.

“Hey,” he pants, voice thin and strained; “can you,” Steve tilts his hips, and as Bucky lifts his head and Steve braces the soles of his feet sow Bucky’ll have to lift his cheek against the line of Steve’s cock: rough. Rough enough that Steve starts to pearl from the slit of his length—“ _y’know_.”

And Bucky grins, and rubs his beard against the veins of Steve’s straining dick and yep.

He knows.

“For you?” Bucky grins, and nuzzles the curls at Steve’s groin so that his chin grazes the root of Steve’s prick, and yes. _Yes_ —

“For you, Stevie baby? I think just maybe I can manage.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com).
> 
> And again: if you'd like to follow Steve and Bucky post-[No End To This Thing](http://archiveofourown.org/series/455365), here's the series to follow: **[The World We Forge Unending](http://archiveofourown.org/series/892896)** —there's at LEAST one more story. Which, if you know me, means there are an indefinite amount of stories :\


End file.
